


Why Must I Be A Teenager In Love?

by articulatez



Category: Fallout 3
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Closeted Character, Hopeful Ending, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28505949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/articulatez/pseuds/articulatez
Summary: Butch DeLoria has a cool cat reputation to protect, a drunk mother to watch over, and a secret to hide. The new addition to the Tunnel Snakes threatens to jeopardize all of it without even trying.
Relationships: Butch DeLoria & Female Lone Wanderer, Butch DeLoria/Freddie Gomez
Kudos: 7





	Why Must I Be A Teenager In Love?

Freddie Gomez proudly whipped the tupperware lid off the bowl, revealing a fruit punch soaked loaf of white bread in a cloth bag.

“The hell is this, man?” Butch asked, prodding the soggy, pinkish lump. This was why he’d gotten his ass dragged into Freddie’s room?

“Somethin’ your mom taught me,” Freddie snickered.

Butch clenched his fist. “Watch your tongue or I’ll punch it out.”

“Easy. It’s pruno. Get fruit, add bread, in no time we’ll have enough booze to get a party going, if you know what I mean,” he said. “We can charge a pretty penny to get loaded.”

Behind them, Paul watched the door, and at those words he hacked, clearing his throat of the nerves that lodged there.

There was a beat, Freddie looking at him and Paul coughing his lungs out, where the weight of the fluorescent and steel threatened to crush him and his nineteen years of limited know-how. He loosened his hand and let out a laugh, clapping Freddie on the shoulder.

“Nice work. Those creeps will never be the same. No more stealing wine out of our folks’ liquor cabinets, no more waiting until we’re twenty-one bullshit.”

“Guys, I don’t know about this. If this brewing shit goes wrong, couldn’t it explode? We could get in a lot of trouble,” Paul worried, swiveling his head back and forth from Butch to the door. 

At that, Wally stopped picking his teeth with his knife and frowned. Wally was good muscle and not so hot at conversation, but they’d been tight since they were kids. Not like Freddie Gomez. A newcomer, and a kissass, and a fink.

The three and a half -- four, considering Freddie’s off-and-on membership in the gang -- were the Tunnel Snakes, the baddest crew in any Vault and the hottest commodity in theirs. Guys wanted to be them. Girls wanted to be whistled at by them. Best of all, they did special jobs for the Overseer. Bruisers, the guys he sent in when someone publicly questioned his supreme authority. Butch wanted to like the feeling of bones crunching under his knuckles, and the Overseer told him it would come to him in time. Meanwhile, those favors bought stale cigarettes, packets of fruit punch mix, and comic books wrapped in cellophane. To young men, these items were worth their weight in gold.

Butch smirked. “So don’t let it explode. Got that, Fred?” Grabbing the kid’s shoulder tight, he shook him for emphasis. “I’m counting on you. The Tunnel Snakes are counting on you double.”

“Triple, boss,” Wally spoke up.

“Damn straight. Triple. You come through on this and don’t fuck it up, we’ll see about getting you a jacket with your name sewn on it.”

Freddie’s eyes gleamed with delight. Some rats would take any scrap of acceptance you threw at them. With Butch’s help, Freddie the rat could become a viper. “You mean it?”

“I don’t say a thing I don’t mean, man,” he assured him. “Boys, I’ll catch you tomorrow.”

Freddie made an audible, disappointed whine and Butch laughed, saluting the side of his head as he retreated, the clomp of his boots distinct in his own head though they sounded exactly the same as anyone else’s. The truth was, he stood out because he said he did, because he pounded his chest and blackened eyes and took risks. Ordinary assholes died in the dark, same as he would.

His shoulders slouched in. He peered into his home. The stench hit him first, the jet fuel she poured down her throat and the rose perfume she used to cover it. Mom was passed out in a chair, flopped over the arm, her head hanging. At least she hadn’t puked yet. Butch rubbed his forehead, groaning at the headache that threatened to blind him. Fluorescents could have that effect on anyone. It wasn't a weakness.

“Mom,” he said, switching the door closed behind him. His voice came out gruff. “Mom, wake up, c’mon.”

She murmured and then snored, a wet-sounding snore. Butch cringed. It was time to get her to bed before she started blowing snot on the furniture. He gently gathered her in his arms, surprised at how thin and frail his mom had become. Considering her diet of snack cakes, cigarettes, and booze, maybe it wasn’t that surprising. Their place was tiny by anyone’s standards, reason being that the old man had flown the coop when Butch was a baby. Whoever the bastard was, hiding in plain sight among the other vaulties, Butch hated him only because of that, this one-room tin full of empty vodka bottles.

At least he didn’t have to walk far to get to their shared room. His mom’s bed wasn’t made, so it was easier to lay her on her side, place the designated sick basin by her head, and pull the sheets to her chest. Butch rolled his shoulders twice, popped his spine, and crouched to watch his mom breathe. She was breathing normally, slow and even. The creases in her face were deep, and her lightly permed hair had fallen in front of her eyes. He swept it back, sighing.

“Ma, how about when you’re awake I give you a haircut, huh? Deep condition treatment, the works?” he said to her.

In response, she kept sleeping. He didn’t blame her. If he had a son like him-- He couldn’t breathe for a second. 

“Damn,” he said, laughing bitterly. “Raised a mean old bastard, didn’t you?” He punched his knee and left her side to sink onto his mattress, his covers pulled tight and tucked in like they oughta be, and buried his head in his hands. The other kids in this dump weren’t anything to him, but the thought of them drunk or sick or addicted…

Butch could do one thing different. He chewed his nails to bleeding and watched the hands on the clock move until he was sure Freddie and the rest of the crew were in the cafeteria for dinner. Time to move. Walking on feet that didn’t feel like his, hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders slouched; a don’t fuck with me posture.

As luck hated him, he didn’t notice Amata and nearly trampled her. Grabbing her shoulders to stop her from falling, he felt her tense in his hands and turn her head like she thought he’d try to kiss her.

“What’s the matter with you?” he demanded.

“Going to harass me some more? Where are your stupid goons?” she spat, looking frantically around.

She was afraid of him. He tightened his grip, snapping out of it and gasping at her whimper. She thought he meant it, all those times goofing around, being who the guys expected.

Amata stumbled back a few steps and kneaded her shoulders, doing that fast blink he recognized as trying not to cry.

“Sorry,” he shrugged, and stared at his shoes.

“That’s it?” she asked. When he shrugged again she said, “Why?!”

“Friends ain’t here. But speakin’ of friends, why don’t you tell your old man there’s a cherry bomb set to blow in Freddie Gomez’s bedroom. If security hurries they can stop it,” he said. “But you didn’t hear it from me, and if you’re half as smart as you act, you heard it from your brainy friend.”

There was no bomb, and the only thing that’d be exploding was Butch’s reputation.

* * *

Hives covered him an inch thick, nervous, itchy welts made worse by him scratching under his collar and the rolled cuffs on his sleeves. Freddie slid into the seat next to him, carrying a strawberry sundae and a fistful of polished metal spoons. Wally grabbed a spoon immediately and started eating, not paying attention to the others in favor of reading what looked like a girl’s diary. Paul, his arm slung around the booth on the other side, eyeballed the girls swaying at the jukebox and didn’t notice Butch’s face darken at the new Tunnel Snake’s denim-hugged hips pressing his, warm and firm.

Luckily, ignorance was sometimes bliss.

Butch scooped a big bite of ice cream and turned his head to ice, distracting himself from the unthinkable. Freddie Gomez was a fink who was definitely going to destroy him if he learned it was Butch’s fault: the confiscated alcohol along with whatever punishments had rained on his pomaded head.

“So why aren’t we making fliers for a party right now?” Paul asked, taking a spoon only to bend it so it was unusable.

Freddie slouched hard into the booth. His shoulder and the side of his arm touched Butch’s and Butch bit the spoon, his fillings screeching and the ringing in his ears drowning out anything but panic.

“Ruth ratted me out,” he grumbled. “I gotta theory how that transpired, see.”

He leaned forward on his elbows and doodled a phallic symbol into the table using one of the pencils snuck out of the classroom, restricted property because of vandalism.

“I-- uh, I mean my mom gets these headaches. Women’s troubles,” he blustered.

“I got your women’s troubles right here,” Butch jeered, grabbing his crotch.

Wally snickered and went back to reading. Whoever’s diary it was had to have been some juicy secrets, his eyes glued to the pages.

“Yeah,” Freddie said, confused. “Women got those monthly troubles, gives ‘em headaches and a bad attitude. My mom lays around all day when she ain’t got school.”

“School?” Butch giggled, flicking whipped cream off his spoon in Freddie’s direction.

The guy flinched and dragged his palm on his face, glaring right at Butch as he licked it off. Suddenly acutely aware -- see, Mr. Brotch, he could so remember geometry -- of the sparse antiperspirant that let sweat trickle on his undershirt, Butch narrowed his eyes. He hoped it said ‘don’t fuck with me’ and not ‘please kiss me.’ He hoped his friends were still distracted by girly secrets and their classmates jitterbugging by the jukebox.

“Go on,” Butch said, licking the spoon clean.

“So she goes to the doc to get this medicine. Her head’s clear another month, whatever. The point is, who always hangs out around the doctor? His nerdy daughter,” Freddie said, pointing his thumb to the side.

Butch leaned to the side, catching the dork blinking suspiciously at him. Ruth’s baseball cap barely stayed on her towhead, crazy bangs doing little to obscure her magnified peepers. It was the most intently he’d seen someone drink a chocolate malt.

“She does live with him, Einstein,” Paul said. “‘Sides, there’s a thing called doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“Your mom needs it more than mine does,” Freddie said to Butch, earning him a twisted nipple. He howled in pain. “Hey, lay off! The point is, ol’ Coke-bottle-glasses-face Ruth found out somehow, the security team ransacked my whole room and took all my contraband, and we have to lay low for a while.”

Wally looked up. “All of it?”

“Yeah, the dirty mags, too. Sorry.” But he didn’t sound that sorry.

Ruth’s stare bored into the side of his face. He raised his fist and gave her a promising smile: mess with the Snakes and catch his fangs. Or his fist. Whatever. Being cool meant precise words didn’t matter, only results.

“Lay low. We can do that. Knock it off,” he said, snatching the stubby pencil out of Freddie’s grubby mitt. “I won’t get kicked out of here on spaghetti night.” He eyed the doodle. “Is that to scale?”

“Shut up,” Freddie said, his ears turning mauve.

“No, really, is this false advertising if the ladies sit at this table?” he kept mocking.

Having had enough of those outrageously clever barbs, Freddie tore off his jacket and stormed out, leaving three bemused Tunnel Snakes and a mostly melted strawberry sundae.

* * *

Once again, a Friday night tucking his mom into bed and making sure she was breathing. Youth was wasted in this Vault, where the greatest gang could be reduced by one quarter by stupid arguments. Inexplicably, the week was boring with Freddie gone. No stupid plans to destroy property. No contraband courtesy of his security officer dad. No goofy responses like he was new to hanging with the wrong crowd; he was new to it, but most good kids who turned to bad seed didn’t show it so easily.

He’d ran his fingers through his hair while thinking and messed up his signature ‘do. Whatever was the matter with him tonight, he was not going to let it ruin his appearance, damn it. Butch had a reputation as a barber to uphold. Grabbing a scissors and positioning his mirror so he could keep one cautious eye on his gently snoring mom, he combed his pompadour back in place, standing straight and slicked. A knock on the front door startled him. His hair was dented again, and this time it wasn’t his fault.

He answered the door gruffly: “What?”

Panting and braced on the doorframe to catch his breath, Freddie Gomez was the sweatiest, sorriest excuse for a guy, and he was sorry. “My fault,” he said. “I’m the jerk. No wonder you don’t want me in your crew. Uh, can I come in?”

Butch sighed and stepped aside to let him in. “Whatever. Don’t mind the mess.”

It wasn’t messy. He vacuumed and tidied where he could, and watching Freddie lean on the kitchen table he realized he could not remember the last time a friend had seen how he lived.

The silence was uncomfortable, stretching out and making itself comfortable.

“My dad gave me a talk,” Freddie said. “That, uh, certain people were put in the drunk tank. More than normal amounts. It’s no big deal, and I won’t say a word, promise, but that’s why you told on me, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he sneered.

“I’m saying your mom’s a drunk and I swear to God, I didn’t know,” he started to say.

Butch grabbed his shirt and spun him into the fridge, holding him in place with an arm in his chest, knocking out his breath. “Shut up! Just shut up! What do you want? You want the damn jacket back? You want to make trash wine when your daddy can steal it for you?” His voice was petulant, loud, on the verge of tears.

“I just wanted to spend time with you,” Freddie said, then softer, “Under all that bluster, you’re a nice, cute guy.”

Butch’s eyes widened in shock at the kiss, a sweeter touch than he deserved. For a moment, it was perfect, embracing in the warm air exhausted by the vent at the bottom of the fridge, Freddie planting small, tender kisses on his lips whenever Butch went to bite or suck, to consume that naïve sweetness. Then he came to his senses and said, too ashamed to meet his eyes, “I can’t, man. Thanks, but…”

Pomade, switchblades, black leather and glass bottles. Things that made a man, made him someone, gave a snake his fangs. The thought of his other friends or, hell, even Amata seeing him vulnerable. Kissing someone. Holding someone. Guy or gal didn’t matter, the thought made him coil up and gag on the rotten meat of vulnerability.

Freddie’s disappointed frown and how he shoved Butch out of his way hurt bad. More than he thought it was gonna. He sat down again to fix his hair. It was awfully mussed.

* * *

The brainiac, in retelling the story of their dual escape to those who asked, maintained that she’d stolen the jacket right out of his locker, and he’d chased her in a blind fury out into the Wasteland. Whether this was her misguided attempt to spare his pride or to rewrite history with her as a mercenary and not a scared kid didn’t matter. The facts mattered and only he knew those.

Ruth, shaking and clutching a bloodied baseball bat, put on the jacket he offered. It looked just okay on her. She didn’t have the muscles. At least she’d managed to save his mom, and that was the last thing he owed that woman.

“Thanks,” she said, and hesitated. “This is why childhood rivalries are stupid. We’ve got a lot in common. Amata doesn’t… She won’t come with me either.”

He hated how perceptive she was. If he didn’t need her he’d break her glasses again.

“Can I come with you?” he asked, his voice small.

She smiled and offered him the 10 mm pistol off her hip. “Can you aim?” Inside that question he heard: Can you be brave?

Butch took it and hefted its weight, checked the safety, and grinned. “I can learn.”


End file.
